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Ansem Weaver (played by ElderGrimm)

(Starter contains depictions of violence and language, censored however.)

IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL FUNERAL... AT THE VERY LEAST.

ACT I Part 1
The Eulogy was given, the dirge sang, the rain departing, and the guests observing the Funeral all felt a sense of... Purpose, after all, who attends the funeral of the unknown that doesn't feel a sense of meaning in mourning another that isn't a loved one.
"Poor bastard, another kid trying to make it, only to end up shot to sh#t..." The Sherrif exhaled nicotine and breathed in petrichor.
"Alright, beautiful recession people, let's head home." the call was given, the priest finished his words and the mourners moved on.

Another six feet underground...

Another smile lighting up the dark.
The coffin's dark interior, the familiar sound of dirt being moved over the wood, the faint particles of earth that filled the air inside the padded coffin.
It's been a few days, right?
"Ahk!" A sneeze was held in and released
bam
"Feck!"
Uncrossing his arms slightly, he opened his eyes and looked around, the tight space of the coffin didn't offer much room to shift around in, but that wasn't necessary.
He could feel the outside, six feet above, shouldn't be too hard.
Inside him darkness flickered, like a hum that grew and shuddered until he felt himself free, now laying six feet above on damp Earth.
"Aaaah... land of the living." The man groaned as he raised himself up onto his feet, kicking out the static feeling in his numb limbs.
"God, damn..." running a hand over the nape of his neck, he looked up to the gray skies above, the clouds, the air filled with cold moisture.
"Well, there's another life burned..." He took a deep breath, looked left, and right, dusted himself off, and started walking.

North Dakota, Somewhere...

He had been walking for hours, felt like days, T-shirt in hand, heading for the state lines, he believed moving through the back roads would help keep him from being seen.
This didn't seem to be the case, as he could hear tires on gravel slowly approaching from behind on the large stretch of road.
A Cop? don't slow down, don't slow down... Ah f#ck.
"Wha!? what did I do I'm just walking here!" He exclaimed, as the police car seemed to approach, and turn its lights on in warning, The man turned his body to face the car and kept walking backward, it was just him and the silhouette in the car for miles around.
The sedan turned into the side of the dirt road and stopped, and out came his silhouette.
"Look man I'm just walking out here, I don't need any help." He began to explain, but the cop just looked at him, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.
"You're looking pretty spry... Healthy, for a man just died last week." The officer pursed his lips, looking at the hitchhiker.
"Look I don't know what you're tal-"
"Hello, Weaver." The officer interrupted, closing the car door.
Weaver's eyes widened slightly.
"You're not a police officer...." He set his hands by his sides, holding one into a fist.
"And You ain't as dead as I thought you were, seems we both disappoint..." The Stranger set out a pair of handcuffs, flicking his tan jacket open to reveal a revolver.
"Why don't we talk a bit? put on the shinies and go up that hill there?"

Weaver didn't have a choice, he looked down to his feet and then to the handcuffs, he wouldn't have the time or ability to use any of his gifts to get away, he was out in the open and the stranger knew it.
"You're that Hunter, from New York." Weaver let himself be turned in, the cuffs placed upon his wrists sizzled and burned as etches inside the metal bubbled to the surface.
"The very same...."

ACT 1 part 2
New York, 1935-40's, Au-Daggar Nightclub.

Swing music could be heard from outside the club, as the pale yellow taxi cab doors closed, leaving the man in the tan jacket out in the cold.
Above, light blue lights lit up the name of the club, a puff of smoke filled the cold air.
"This is the place..." The man took his cigarette and put it out on the thick brick wall of the establishment before approaching the bouncers.
"Ah-ah, no need to get handsy." The man opened the jacket and showed a silver mark to the two bouncers.
The men looked between each other and to him, their eyes cast dangerous threats at him, yet they said nothing as they stepped aside.
"Pleasure doing business."

Inside the dark club...

The Hunter set his sights on the ground floor, locating a group of people around a chips table, he slipped between passer-by and waitress alike and further into the den of monsters.
"Excuse me, miss." The man flashed a faint smile and acquired a tray of drinks from the waitress.
"A##hole!"
Her muffled insult was drowned out by the music and chatter of dozens of people.

"Hey, boys, can I interest you in a drink?" The man kicked the chips table, causing all five of its members to look up to him, not expecting the barrel of a revolver to be peering in their direction.
Hidden behind a glass of icy bourbon, the revolver pointed at each of them as they slowly started sitting up from their chairs.
"Ah, so we know what's going on now... You know who I'm here for, hand over the Witch and I'll be on my way." He ordered, daring one of them to test him.
"You really don't want to see what these bullets can do." He added, a man rose all the same and stood up to him.
"What crime has Sara committed? that they would send a Hunter to kill her?" The pale-skinned man felt the cold steel press up against his temple, the tray lowered onto the table.
"Last chance~" he winked, the man gave no remark, but looked over to the band playing, and snapped his fingers for silence.
"Clear the floor." He requested, The Hunter looked left and right as people began shuffling out.
"So that's how it's gonna be... Well then." The Hunter looked towards the band, bringing a silver coin from his jacket and tossing it over onto the stage.
"Do me a favor, don't stop playing." He requested, the woman at the mic looked between them, her fiery eyes pierced through the dark light of the club.
She stared... And then the two eyes dipped, and returned, a _nod_...
The Table flipped over and the Hunter stepped back, placing his foot on a chair and sliding it into the man as the first shot rang out~

Present time... Act 2 part 1

"I remember you! Karlyle!" Weaver struggled from the restraints, anger rising as the man explained his story.
"You get bored of hunting monsters! you and those Winchester's kill all of them and now you're after the rest of us that haven't done anything!" Weaver growled, earning him a boot to the chest from the Hunter.
"Quiet, BOY!... You talk too loud... You remember that night as clear as I do, what happened?!"
"GO TO HELL!"
The remark was met by the hilt of the revolver.
"WHAT HAPPENED?" Karlyle placed the barrel against Weaver's head, pressing his face into the dirt and grass.
"I jumped in front of a BULLET... For Her!... And then you finished her off!" Weaver shouted... his mind flashing back to her face, so close to his own, their blood mingling on the alcohol-stained wood floor of the clubhouse safe room...
"You killed her, and then you left me alive without her you Basta-!" Weaver fought his way up, kicking at Karlyle's legs, the Hunter just backed off, placing the gun back in its holster.
"So maybe you can tell me why the hell my contract never expired!" Karlyle barked back, showing a bracelet around his wrist, a leather cuff with a white orb held inside it.
"The Fusck am I supposed to kn-" A shot rang out, echoing through the forest, the Hunter had drawn and fired before Weaver could finish righting himself.
"Ahh-..AAAAAOHHWWWW! Just because I can't die from those doesn't mean that doesn't HURT!" Weaver felt the hole, through and through, writhing in pain on the ground.those

"Now I'm sorry for you... Waver I really am..... you're an eternal reminder, a Victim of a Witch I never got to save in time... " Karlyle explained, lifting up Weaver by the collar of his shirt.
"She... turned me, into, her Familiar... She didn't need to die because of it." Weaver groaned out weakly, looking the Hunter in the eyes, despair in his chest.
"A Familiar is allowed to die when their creator or Witch dies... don't you think it's odd that you never died? and that I have been bound for over fifty years to kill that Witch-B#tch?"
The Familiar shook his head, he already knew where this was going.
"You shot her, you burned her, I WATCHED... She's dead, Karl... I've looked for her everywhere YOU THINK I NEVER LOOKED?!..." Weaver fought his way out of the man's grip, the blood stopped flowing, and the wound began to close.grip

It was a long pause between the two, nothing but the wind in the tree's and the faint radio chatter of the stolen police car down the hill.
"Truce...." Karl opened his tan jacket and set the revolver in place again, holding a hand down to Weaver.

Present day, unknown time later... Somewhere in Boston...

The beat of the music inside the building matched the rhythm of Weaver's pulse, looking up from their cab to Karlyle, who closed his door and turned to look up at the building, a faint frown on his face.

"What, you scared of Night clubs?" Weaver taunted, making Karlyle finger the handle of his revolver through the fabric of his jacket.
"I have a history with them." He murmured, watching as the Familiar took to the entrance.
"Oh you too? I wonder who caused that." Weaver commented, rolling his eyes as he fixed his cuffs.
"Shut your ass and get us inside." Karl huffed, leaning his back against the brick as he waited on his new partner to handle the bouncers.

"Hey, you three~ been a long time! Is your
master in? I'd like to speak with him." Weaver held out his hands, palms up, two of the three bouncers took his hand and watched as black ink emerged from the depths of his skin, dancing around Weaver's arms like moving tattoo's.
"And your... Guest?" The woman in the middle tilted her head, looking to Karlyle.
"My Plus-1, I promise he'll behave." Ansem offered a hopeful smile.
"No business conducted on Lycanarch grounds... Remember." The woman handed him a card and stepped aside~

Inside, Karlyle's anxiety got worse, this was a horrible plan.
"This was a horrible plan," Weaver whispered to him as they entered, he felt out of place surrounded by these people.
"You think, Asshole?! I hate you cats!" Karlyle hissed under his breath as the two moved up a set of stairs to the second floor, where they were met by guards.
The pounding music and strobing lights were already giving the Hunter a headache, the shades of pink and purple and blue made him nauseous; it seemed the whole club was lined with the lights.

"Ansem... It's been a long time, I'm surprised Death has not caught you since Sara's passing." The voice came as no surprise to Weaver, who felt slight relief at finding an old friend here in this day and age.
"Master Booth, Thank you for your court." Weaver watched the lights dance across the faces of the many men and women that hung around the booth with the Master, some laying over each other, others intently snuggling into each other's side.

"Oh no, this is not a cordial affair, dear Weaver... You've brought a Hunter, into MY Den, a slaughterer, among my pack." Booth looked over his shoulder to Weaver, shaking a finger at him and tilting his head.
"Do you think I would have allowed your access into my Den without knowing your intent? you wish to speak with our Amnesiac friend do you not?" He wondered, rotating a glass full of suspicious red liquid.
"Look, I know it's no worry, we just want to talk and leave." Karlyle opened his mouth
It was met by a barking laugh from Booth.

"The Human speaks in our presence... This evening could not get more entertaining..." Booth bowed with his arms gestured out, raising a collective murmur of amusement from his comoanions.

"You realize you are surrounded by hundreds of Werewolves... do you not? Mr. Karlyle?" Booth questioned, tilting his head the other way.
"You who have hunted hundreds of my own kind, now come to me for help, you want the Amnesiac to conjure the dead for you?... No." Booth set his drink down, snapping his fingers.
The snap triggered those around him, guards un-crossed their arms and stood at attention, the eyes...
The eyes of the men and women sitting in their booths and laying on pillows on the floor seemed brighter than even the lilac strobes above.

"For Ansem... yes, but you, Karl... No."
Sensing the turning mood of the room, Weaver reached into Karlyle's pocket and yanked the revolver free, causing everyone in the booth to stand.
"Wh- I" M JUST GETTING THE GUN OUT OF THE EQUATION!" Weaver exclaimed, everyone, looked at him like they expected him to use it.
"Motherf~! what are you doing Weaver!" Karlyle hissed, feeling exposed without his weapon.
Ansem didn't have an answer for a few moments, his tongue hadn't caught up to his actions.
"Throwing you to the wolves?"

Shortly after throwing Karl to the wolves;

"THROWING ME TO THE WOLVES?" Karlyle shouted, the door slammed behind them, sliding a bloodied metal bar through the handle to seal it shut against the horde of half-turned werewolves that were now descending upon them.
"IT was a distraction!, look!" Ansem gestured out to the figure tied to the chair, a black bag over their head.
"Who is it?" Karlyle sighed, at least they were safer down here in the basement.
"It's Two thousand Twenty one, it could be a they, Karl." Weaver felt the hand come his way and narrowly dodged the slap.
"I don't give a damn, I mean is this the Amnesiac? I thought they were helping Booth with dredging information from the dead, why would they be kept in the basement down here as a hostage?"

"GEE I wonder if it's almost like they are a HOSTAGE?!" Weaver retorted, shaking his head, he pulled the bag off of y/n's head and tilted y/n's head back and forth.
"They seem like they're drugged out of it.... First, they get cursed to forget, and now they're a hostage in some dank basement of a crazy werewolf den; being drugged." Ansem undid the bindings as Karlyle looked for a way out of the basement that didn't involve the claws and teeth on the other side of the bending metal bar that currently kept them safe.

"We're taking them with us!" Karlyle called, breaking out a windowpane, he could barely see the street, thank God for ground-level windows.
"No sh#t sherlock!" Weaver brushed his hands over y/n's face, his dark skin turned darker as strips of black pierced into y/n's consciousness, waking you up further and clearing your vision.
"Hey, we're getting you out of here, that is if we aren't mauled by werewolves or shot in the back by some vampires we pissed off a while back, You feel? "
Ansem wondered, getting no response from you, he frowned and decided to just pick you up.
"Okay so that didn't get through... uh, we're gonna need a way out, and you can discern stuff from dead people right? any voices in your head want to help us get out of here?"

(WHOOOOO LETS GOOOOO That was a lot of typing... Congrats if you read this far!
You will take the role of the amnesiac, you can be male or female though males are preferred for this particular role.
Hmu here and I'll send you a dm to start the rp off! If you have any questions I can answer them here as well.)

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